


Be Swift in Running to Mischief

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hand & Finger Kink, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Object Penetration, Other, Pedophilia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Experimentation, Trigger Warning!!!, Triggers, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, Unreliable Narrator, badbadwrong, wrong bad evil!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to the SPN Kink Meme reposted prompt: "Can I get some kid Dean actively encouraging pedophile Castiel and excited by the notion of the man taking him. Bonus if Castiel's trying to resist the impure dirty wrong urges and Dean's just cock teasing the hell out of him.<br/>*Someone asked on the original post how old the prompter wanted Dean, I'm not picky but 14 or under would be cool. If the OP is still around feel free to make a different request"</p><p>This is an EXTREMELY wrong, bad, evil fic with nympho!Dean tempting religious-authority-figure Castiel.  PROCEED WITH CAUTION and read the TAGS and CHAPTER HEADINGS. The chapter titles are, of course, the seven deadly sins--that tells you all you need to know: pretentious porn.  Don't even read it, just go straight to donating money to worthwhile causes to redeem yourself.</p><p>I am warning for non-con because of Dean's implied age, rather than because of any particular scenes...so far.  Things may change as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deceit

When Mary Winchester’s oldest son suddenly develops a keen interest in attending Mass at Our Lady, Queen of Angels, Mary gets down on her knees and prays the rosary in thanksgiving.  Her Dean has always been a precocious, self-sufficient child, and Mary’s often worried that his stubborn independence and curiosity would get him in over his head someday.   Unlike Sammy, for whom a book is as good as the real thing, Dean insists on experiencing everything—from poison ivy to juke joints—for himself.   Moreover, while Sammy still looks as gangly and innocent as a colt, Dean has started to fill out.  Mary has seen the way the teenage girls in the five and dime look at him and she’s only glad that Dean doesn’t seem to pay them any mind.   

Nevertheless, Mary worries.  Lawrence, like all cities, is full of wickedness:  Father McCrory, the elderly pastor at Queen of Angels, has announced this from the pulpit.  As far as he’s concerned, the year 1962 might as well be the End of Days, and Mary’s not sure he’s wrong.  Oh, she wishes John were still with them; it’s hard raising boys on her own!  She’d never had brothers, or many boy cousins.  When she’d been Dean’s age, there had been a Depression, and then all the boys had gone off to war…there just hadn’t been same temptations!  

In the months since they’ve moved to Lawrence, the boys have generally been on their own after school, since Dr. Goodwin doesn’t close his office until six.  Sam often has cub scouts or chess club and Dean delivers groceries for pocket money, but summer is coming and with it long, unsupervised hours.  Sam can go to the Scouts Under-12 day camp, but Dean’s too old.  Then, one day in late May, Dean mentions that the archdiocese has assigned a new seminarian to Queen of Angels for the summer: “His name’s Castiel.  Old McCrory’s already got a list of chores for him. He’s gonna play the organ and fix the cemetery fence and paint the inside of the belltower.”

“ _Father_ McCrory,” Mary corrects automatically as she spoons another serving of ham salad onto Sam’s plate.  Her little one is growing like a weed; soon he’ll be almost as tall as his brother.  “And where did you hear this?”

“Up at the church,” Dean says, like this should be obvious, like he hasn’t fussed about going to Mass nearly every Sunday since they’d arrived in Lawrence.  “Said I’d help with the belltower.  Bet you can see Missouri from up there!” 

Queen of Angels has a squat, square belltower that barely pokes above the roofline: Mary thinks anyone up there would be lucky to see to the other side of Deloit Street.  Still, she can’t think of a safer place for Dean to spend the summer than doing chores at the local parish under the watchful eye of a future priest.  Just the right role-model for a fatherless boy.  This seminarian, Castiel—he’ll be so good for Dean, the answer to her prayers.


	2. Sloth

Dean cuts across the churchyard behind Queen of Angels.  There’s a little-known gate that lets out onto Deloit Street, the last delivery stop for his part-time job, and going through the cemetery saves him twenty minutes on the way home.  He doesn’t think of it as _being lazy_ , but rather as _conserving energy_. 

It’s the hottest day of the year so far.  Easily eighty degrees in the shade, and considering that school’s only been out for a week, it looks like the forecast for summer ‘62 is: long, hot, and boring.  Grocery deliveries, babysitting Sammy. He doesn’t know a lot of kids from school—they’ve only been here three months—and most of them are complete babies, but he has an older friend, Dorrie, who can maybe get him into some more movies at the theater where she works…

No, Dean resolves suddenly: he’s going to make something of his summer.  The summer before high school is going to be one to remember.  He’s just not sure how, yet.  Something will come along, though.  That’s the attitude that makes his mom crazy: she says he’s growing up, says he has to learn that failing to plan is planning…something, he can’t quite remember.  Well, he _is_ growing up, all right, but it’s not like most of their plans have worked out recently.  Nah, Dean is confident that he’ll know what he wants when he sees it.  He just has to keep his eyes open.

Dean steps into the shade of one of the old cemetery trees and slings himself down onto a marble bench erected in memory of somebody-or-other.  He’s got twenty minutes all to himself: no over-wrought mother, no nosy baby brother.  The cool of the marble tickles through his sweaty shirt, so Dean shucks it off.  He rolls onto his stomach, likes the feel of the hard, cold stone along his front.  He lets his mind wander to Dorrie.  It’s neat, having an older friend.  Got to be eighteen…or seventeen, at least.  She looks older ‘cause she’s dyed her hair like one of those movie stars from the War.  Platinum hair and red lips, just like a movie star.  Dorrie loves movies.   Dean’s trying to decide if he loves Dorrie.  He thinks he might, a little.

He _wants_ to love her.  She shares her sandwiches with him and plays rock-and-roll on a little transistor radio in the ticket booth at the theater when her boss isn’t around.  She calls him “kiddo” and blows bubble-gum bubbles the size of her head.  She doesn’t care that his clothes are all second hand and that all the money from his grocery-store job goes to his mom.  “Family is important,” she told him once.  “I don’t have any, so I should know!”  She’s the only interesting person he’s met since they’ve moved to Lawrence.  And once, right before school let out, when he was early with her delivery and there weren’t any customers at the theater, she’d beckoned him over to her ticket booth.  She’d slid open the window panel and leaned out to put her red-painted fingernails on his shoulders and her red-painted mouth on his. He’d been so surprised he’d opened his mouth and he’d almost come in his pants when he’d felt the quick, tentative flicker of her tongue. 

Even thinking about it now, a week later, Dean gets hard.  He groans and ruts restlessly against the marble of the bench.  He’s so…he just want someone to touch—his mother would say it’s just him being lazy again.  Interested in Dorrie because Dorrie is _there,_ and _fun_ , and _easy._ Not that he would ever tell Mom about Dorrie.  For one thing, Mom would just tell him he’s too young.  For another thing, he’s pretty sure Dorrie is a boy. 

That should probably bother him more than it does—but what kind of bothers him about Dorrie is that she’s not _more_ like a boy.   Or no, not a _boy_.  A grown-up.  A man.  Dean’s had a lot of time to think about this.  At least, he’s been thinking about it a lot recently.  But it’s not a recent thought. When he was younger and they lived in Witcheta, Dean used to watch men on the street-car and wonder what it would feel like to have someone that big and strong touch him: just hold his hand, say, or pick him up.  When he got older, he “got lost”—at the zoo when he was nine, at the State Fair a few months later—because the policemen who found him would chuck him under the chin and sit him on their laps and ruffle his hair.  He had to stop doing things like that because running away wasn’t fair to his mother, but he hasn’t stopped thinking about it.  About them.  The men. 

He knows if he told anyone, they’d think he feels this way because Dad died when he was so young.  He really doesn’t think that’s it.  After all, it’s not that he thinks those men _are_ his Dad.  Dean was almost five when his father died; he remembers how his Dad would hold him.  That’s not what he wants from Dorrie.  No, he wants something very different.   He’s curious.  He has been for awhile, maybe forever.  He hasn’t _done_ anything about it because he’s not sure what to do.  And he is, as his mother might say, a little lazy.  Something will come along.   

He’s turning these thoughts over in his mind, idly rolling his hips, trying to decide if he can bother jerking off when he becomes aware of a strange, rhythmic _shush_ ing sound nearby.  The churchyard is usually silent.  The big old church and the rectory block off the sound from the front and back runs along Deloit, where there’s never any traffic.  There’s a bigger, newer cemetery on the other side of town where most of the parish goes to lay wreaths and such.  So what’s going on? Dean pops up like a groundhog, peeping over the back of the bench, head swiveling around and stopping dead when he sees the angel.

It’s not really an angel, of course, although it bears a striking resemblance to a partially-clad avenging angel whose mural is photostatted in a certain library book (Dean has spent perhaps more time look at pictures of Renaissance nudes than his history grades might reflect). This man is tall and dark-haired and carrying a scythe. He swings it with an easy grace that makes the muscles of his back and shoulders stand out like sculpture.  Dean can see them clearly because the man has pulled of his shirt and tucked it into his back pocket, where it dangles and draws attention to his ass. 

***

Cas is working on the very last section of the cemetery when he sees the boy.  He’s been at it for most of the afternoon.  The place has clearly not received much attention during Father McCrory’s tenure.   Our Lady, Queen of Angels doesn’t even own a functioning lawn-mower, just a series of decrepit hand-tools.  Cas had decided to cut down the worst of the weeds with the old scythe and then have Father make a plea in the Sunday bulletin asking for the loan of a lawn-mower.   From the state of the churchyard, and the paint-blistered belltower, and several other elements, it’s evident that this parish is not one of the archdiocese’s showplaces.  That’s fine with Castiel.  He thinks he’ll do better in a small, out-of-the-way congregation, anyway.

The original churchyard design called for a rolling, multi-acre cemetery.  It was scrapped when the city of Lawrence reclaimed half the land through Eminent Domain and decided to build a side street, Deloit, in years before the First World War.  Consequently, the last quarter of the property slopes down to a tall, wrought-iron fence that closes the property off from the road.  Cas is just crossing this ridge when he happens to look down into the low part of the cemetery and catches a flash of bright blue that quickly resolves itself into a shirt.  The shirt has been tossed over a convenient headstone while, in the shadow of a nearby tree a boy is—Cas can think of no more delicate word for it— _humping_ a marble bench. 

If Cas had been two yards to the left or two to the right, he wouldn’t have had such a perfect view.  But the Lord is kind and merciful and the boy is a gift: tall and long-limbed, just a hint of bowing to his legs, a delicious dip where his waist nips in.  Cas can only hope the kid’s companion comes soon: a body that beautiful shouldn’t be so frustrated.  He continues on around to the far side of the tree, imagining that the boy will be gone by the time he makes his way back.

Instead, no more than ten minutes later, he finds the kid staring at him like he’s seen a vision. 

“Hello,” Cas says, wiping his face with his shirt and taking the opportunity to stand in the shade of the tree.  “Are you waiting for someone?”

He says it to tease a little, because up close the kid looks a little young to be having trysts.  But the response is more than he expected.  The boy blushes a muted, beautiful pink all the way down to his nipples.  Castiel finds himself gripping his scythe to resist the urge to reach out and touch the even, warm coloring. 

“Yes.  Uh—no.  I mean, hi,” the boy stammers.  He is even more lovely in person.  His hair is starting to lighten from the summer sun and the delightful spray of freckles across his nose is echoed by the pattern on his shoulders.  He reaches for his shirt..

“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” Cas says.  “I’m almost done and then you’ll have the place to yourself.  Although, you know, the grave’s a fine and quiet place, but…”

He leaves the reference hanging, suddenly wondering how appropriate it might be.  Cas has been tempted before, and found wanting. A pretty co-ed from a convent high school with elastic young tits just starting to bud under her uniform blouses. A novice nun, her body consecrated to God. Once—revelation!—a choirboy at the junior seminary who had sung out so beautifully when Cas had pleasured him. But they were in the past: to everything there is a season, and this summer Cas had resolved to follow Corinthians and put away childish things. Of course, he hadn't meant "childish" literally: this boy can’t be more than thirteen?  Perhaps a tall twelve?

Whatever his age, he seems to have regained his composure.  “I’m not afraid of cemeteries.  My Dad took me to them all the time.  I remember.”

“Ah…Is he meeting you here?”

“No, I’m just on my way home from work.  And he’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cas replies.

“He died in a fire when I was little.”

“That must have been very difficult,” Cas keeps his tone neutral.  He’s beginning to suspect this strange exhibitionist boy likes to say things to shock people.

“Well, my mom and my brother and I get along okay,” the boy says defensively.  “We go to church here.”

“Well, then we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, you and I.  I’m working here for the summer.  The archdiocese sent me to help Father McCrory.  I’ll play the organ, maybe fix the belltower.  I’m a seminarian.  That means I—”

“I know what it means,” the boy says, looking with new interest.  “That means you’re never going to marry a woman.”

Cas laughs, a little surprised.  “I…well, yes, among other things, I suppose it does.”

“Don’t you like women?”

The words sound like those of a younger child, but the tone is curiously mature.

“I like lots of people.”

The boy seems to consider this for a second, and then—a heart-shattering smile. “Good!” The boy beams. “Me, too, I think.”

Cas can feel a deep, animal urge well up inside him: Christ, he would do foolish and dangerous things to see that smile again.

“My name is Dean,” the boy holds out a slim, perfect hand with great solemnity. “Dean Winchester. I’ll help, with the belltower and stuff.  My mom says I can be lazy, but I just need the right motivation,” he recites.  “I just have to know what I want.”

It sounds just like something a mother _would_ say, and Cas feels ashamed for having such wicked thoughts.  The boy’s innocence is part of his charm. Obviously, he can’t know the effect he has on others. “Castiel—but call me Cas.”  Now, why did he say that?  He and this child are not friends, not equals.

“You look like the Angel of Death,” Dean nods to the scythe.

“Yeah, that’s me.  Castiel. Angel of the Lord,” Cas jokes, and the boy smiles once more.  Silently in the back of his head, Cas begins to recite an Act of Contrition.  He would do _sinful_ things to see that smile again.

 


	3. Lust

Castiel does the best he can with the large old organ above the south transept.  The pipes are in fairly good condition, considering how much Father McCrory has neglected them.  The organ loft itself is cramped and dim.  Tucked behind a marble-clad pillar, it gets very little light and can be accessed by a nearly-vertical staircase leading from the sacristy to a hatch in the loft floor. It’s only a matter of time, Cas figures, before he misses a step and breaks an arm.  Castiel leaves his cassock in the sacristy and tries not to think about how hot the loft will get as the summer progresses.  As he climbs the narrow stairs, he wonders if anyone will notice if he sheds his black shirt and Roman collar.  Would his white undershirt be visible this high above the congregation?  Mrs. Moresby, the old biddy who manages— _fails to manage,_ Castiel thinks—the children’s choir would probably be shocked into a heart attack.  It would be the most male flesh she’s seen since her Reginald died. 

Castiel rummages through a stack of sheet music, pulling out what he needs. Mrs. Moresby’s tastes run to long, repetitive hymns with many pages.  Below him, he hears her trying to wrangle a few recalcitrant choristers.  To drown them out, he plays a few bars from memory: _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring_.  He’s barely gotten to the first repeat when he has the odd, crawling feeling of being watched…and when he turns, he finds Dean Winchester barely four feet away, seated on the edge of the hatch that leads down from the choir loft.   His eyes are closed, but faint wrinkle of concentration mars his forehead, like he’s trying to absorb the music through osmosis. He’s wearing the silly ruff that Mrs. Moresby requires for the choir.  He should look ridiculous—all the other choir kids do—but somehow, against the starched fabric, his tanned summer skin looks as soft and flawlessly smooth as a peach.  Castiel’s last choirboy, the junior seminarian, had just started shaving and tended to miss spots or nick himself: all of that is still ahead of Dean. 

Castiel hands freeze on the keyboard and the music stops abruptly.  Dean’s eyes flicker open. The stark black and white of his choir robe and surplice make them look particularly vivid.  Not to mention what the contrast does for the rich red of his mouth.

Cas comes to his senses.  “You shouldn’t be up here,” he says stiffly.

Dean bites his ripe bottom lip, like he knows what Cas was thinking. “Don’t stop 'cause of me.  Mrs. Moresby sent me to turn pages.”  He swings his feet idly where they dangle into the empty space, a flash of blue jeans and old canvas sneakers under the skirts of the surplice.  The ragged shoes, stained from half a summer of biking and sandlot baseball, are curiously endearing.  Combined with the shapeless robe, they make him look even younger than he is.

Cas rolls his eyes: Mrs. Moresby’s delusions of grandeur have her imagining complex musical scores and a  full orchestra instead of a clapped-out old organ and repetitive tunes he could play in his sleep.

“Can you read music?”

In a single, graceful movement, Dean pulls his feet up and rolls to kneel on the floor beside the stair hatch.  “I can count measures.  Please don’t send me back—Mrs. Moresby _hates_ me.  She says my voice throws everyone off and that I’m a trouble-maker.” Dean’s voice cracks right on cue. “ _Please_?” He looks up imploringly and then drops his gaze.

 Cas looks down at Dean Winchester on his knees, hands clasped to beg, lush mouth pouting sweetly. _Sweet Christ_ , he thinks, _lead us not into temptation_.

“And do you cause trouble for Mrs. Moresby?”  The very words taste like flirtation in Cas’s mouth, though of course Dean won’t hear them like that.

Except he does.  The boy goddamn _flutters_ his outrageously long eyelashes and then looks down modestly. “Sometimes.” He doesn't sound apologetic. 

Cas forces himself to look away from the kneeling figure even as his fingers flex impotently over the organ keys.  He wants to touch…

“C’n you help me?”  Dean says and he must have a hunter’s reflexes because he’s managed to stand and move two steps closer without even a whisper of starched fabric to give him away.  Now he’s practically at Cas’s elbow and trying fretfully to undo the ruffled collar.

“Here, sit,” Cas says automatically, ceding his spot on the bench of the organ. 

Dean obediently sits and turns his back, bends his neck so Cas can stand behind him and work the tiny collar buttons.  Cas's fingers have gone thick and clumsy, but he forces hmself to go slowly, though all he really wants is to tear his way through.  Patience is a virtue, he reminds himself.  And virtue is rewarded when the last button releases to reveal the vulnerable nape of Dean’s neck, pale where his summer crew-cut is starting to grow out. Cas wants to lick the bump that marks the top of his spine. 

Dean looks up with a winsome smile.  “Thanks.  You should take off yours, too.” Dean’s expression turns conspiratorial: “Promise I won’t tell.”  Cas doesn’t even realize he’s eased the white band of his Roman collar out of its placket until he finds it in his hand.

“Mine itches something awful,” Dean offers.  “See?”  He tilts his head submissively so Cas can see where the rough starched muslin has rubbed a raw spot on the column of his neck just behind his ear.  Wordlessly, Cas puts two fingertips against the sore place: maybe it’s just imagination, but it feels hotter than the surrounding skin. 

Dean squirms and huffs out a breath, then turns into his hand like a cat who wants to be petted.   “Feels good.”

Cas lets his palm cup the slender stalk of Dean’ s neck.  He feels the tendons shift, the curve of his skull, soft hair, dancing pulse.  He moves his hand to the left a little. Dean follows to maintain the contact, allows Cas to turn his head.   Cas gently strokes the back of Dean’s neck with his thumb, lets his eyes trace the slope of the boy’s throat down to where his worn t-shirt gapes under the choir robe.   If he were a girl, Cas muses, I’d be able to see tits. 

The church bell begins to toll just then, calling the faithful to Mass and startling them both.  Dean has been drifting, lulled by the warm darkness of the choir loft and the strength of the hands on him.  The noise is so sudden and unexpected that his whole body jerks with surprise.   He nearly tips backwards, right off the organ bench, but of course, Castiel  is right behind him. 

But the spell is broken.  Castiel laughs—Dean can feel the vibration of it—and ruffles Dean’s hair.  Like he’s just another kid! 

“Loud, isn’t it?  We’re up close to the roof!”  Cas  leans in closely to be heard, his mouth wide and hot near Dean’s ear.  Dean just wants to curl up against his broad chest, put his fingers on Castiel’s tongue.   He wants to put his fingers in other places, too: when he’d slid against Castiel, he’d felt the firm thickness of the man’s cock through the combined layers of their clothing. 

He can’t stop thinking about it, even when Cas sits—gingerly, Dean notices—and starts to play the opening processional like nothing ever happened.  Straight through to the gospel reading, Dean tries to reconstruct the muscle memory: his shoulder tilting back, rubbing against Cas’s thigh.  He’s thinking so hard he almost misses two page cues during the Kyrie. 

Dean stands extra-close to the organ bench, pretending it’s so he can read the score over Cas’s shoulder.  But really, it’s because being this close to Castiel is making his own cock hard.  Coaxing the right sound out of the wheezy old organ takes power: Dean can see the muscles of Castiel’s shoulders as he plays.  He wants those muscles playing _him._

Dean has outgrown the dress pants he had for school and they can’t afford a new pair until September; that’s the only reason Mom lets him come to Mass in jeans.  Leaving his right hand free to turn pages of sheet music, Dean slips his left hand up the sleeve of the surplice and palms the bulge in his jeans.  He likes the way the jeans cradle and constrict his cock, but he’s not sure how long he can take it.  He’ll definitely have to sneak away from Cas and jerk off before he meets his mother and Sammy at the church door. (Mom will probably make him shake hands with old McCrory, who always holds on too long.)  In the airless organ loft, he can smell soap and man-sweat, a salty sweetness that makes his mouth fill suddenly with spit when he thinks incongruously of his mother’s recipe for salted caramel.  He doesn’t hear a word of Father McCrory’s sermon.

After the sermon is Communion: a long choral piece while the congregation lines up, and then an even longer instrumental piece while everyone shuffles back to their seats to contemplate the mysteries of divine incarnation.  Cas plays the instrumental piece from memory, freeing Dean from the need to turn pages of sheet music. 

“You can go down,”  Cas whispers to Dean without skipping a note.  Dean puts on his best confused face and moves closer, like he can’t quite hear.  He ends up almost pressed against Cas’s back, the man’s lips on his ear.  Finally, he can no longer pretend that he didn’t hear and heads down the loft stairs as though he’s going to join the communion line.

At the foot of the stairs, the sacristy is lined with closets and drawers containing priestly vestments and implements for Mass.  The air smells like incense and camphor balls.  Dean kneads himself through his jeans.  He’s so hard, his cock is pressed right up against his belly.  The swollen head pushes against the waistband of his jeans, so intense he can’t decide if it feels good or not.  The tip is slick and sticky: there will be a stain on his shirt.  Dean doesn’t know what the sticky fluid is, just that he seems to produce a lot of it.  Is that normal? He wouldn’t even know who to ask. 

Dean gives in and eases open the button of his jeans.  The release feels so good he almost whimpers.   His balls are pulled up tight and his belly knots involuntarily when he touches them.  Another gout of slickness spills from his cock.  He’ll have to wash his hands really well before he shakes Father McCrory’s.  Suddenly, the organ music swells louder as someone opens the door from the church to the sacristy hallway.  Dean has a brief image of one of the altar guild bringing in the used communion chalices and finding him here with his dick hanging out.

He wipes his hand hastily on his jeans and pulls open a door to his left.  Neatly folded altar cloths.  Shit!  Another door reveals a set of costumes for the nativity play.  The third leads into a bathroom and Dean is barely inside when he hears the sacristy door open behind him.

Dean presses his back against the inside of the bathroom door, listening to two altar servers discuss remove stains made by spilled communion wine.  He nearly screams when he sees a shadowy figure…and then has to stifle hysterical giggles when he realizes it is only his own reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, the ones the priests must use to check their vestments. 

Dean knows he should zip up and be ready to slip out of the sacristy as soon as the coast is clear.  But he doesn’t.  The old-fashioned bathroom is tiled with cold, Victorian porcelain.  The lone window, high in the wall, is nearly overgrown with ivy. Clearly the room is scoured every Monday by the church’s cleaning ladies and then forgotten about.  Dean studies his reflection from across the room.  The green cast of the light through the ivy makes him feel like he’s underwater, makes the freckled boy in the mirror across the room look like someone else, someone wild.  

Dean eases his jeans down over the curve of his ass, lets them sag to his ankles.  Even after the shock of nearly being discovered, his erection has barely flagged.  It makes a little tent in his choir robe.  Dean smooths the robe down over his cock the way he’s seen pregnant ladies touch their bellies: proud and a little showy.  Then he hitches up the layers—surplice, robe, t-shirt—sensitive to the tickle of starched cotton on his thighs.  All the layers of fabric make him feel like a girl in a dress.  A girl all done up in a dress so a man can undress her.   

Would Castiel want him more if he were a girl?  Dean doesn’t think that would make a difference.  Something to do with the way Cas looks at his mouth, with the calm possessiveness Dean had felt in Castiel’s hands. He pulls his clothes up higher, studies the body in the mirror.  He pretends his hands are Castiel’s, Cas’s big hands that had moved so gently across Dean’s throat, that even now are playing the organ upstairs.  The hands pull at his dark nipples, peaked by the chilly room, and then travel south, over his faintly muscled stomach and the curve of his waist.  One hand tugs his cock away from his belly, releases it so it snaps back, teases the head out of the foreskin. 

In the mirror, Dean sees the muscles in his thighs twitch.  He can feel his toes curling inside his sneakers.  He stuffs a wad of his t-shirt into his mouth because his breathing suddenly sounds too loud to his own ears, and because he’s feeling the need to bite down on something, anything.  He eases his other hand between his legs, behind his balls.  The hole there is dry, but his fingers are slick.  One finger goes in.  Just the tip of a second.  His wrist is angled awkwardly, but Dean doesn’t care.  He needs it.  Cas would touch him here: Dean knows, he’s saw a movie once. Two men, together, one inside the other.  Dean _wants_ Cas to touch him here.  And not just with fingers. 

Because Castiel had been hard, too.   Dean had felt how hard, how _ready_ , when he’d nearly fallen—when Cas had kept him from falling. The memory of Cas’s touch makes Dean’s hips pump up into his own fist.  Dean tries to stave off his pleasure until he reaches the inevitable conclusion.  Cas is a grown up, but even so, his cock couldn’t be that big _all_ the time.   _Dean_ had made him swell like that.

***

When Castiel comes down from the organ loft after playing the recessional, Dean Winchester is sitting at the table in the sacristy.  He looks like he’s just woken up from a nap—flushed and tousled, glassy-eyed.  It’s an enchanting look, one that makes Cas glad he’d made use of his pocket handkerchief during Father McCrory’s long-winded final blessing. 

“Hello, Dean.  Missed your page-turning prowess during the recessional.”

Dean blinks up at him.  “Hi.”

“Do you feel—? You look a little…” Cas tries to resist, but almost without volition, he presses a hand to Deans damp forehead. Dean’s mouth falls open a little, but he doesn’t make a sound.  “Tell your mother to take your temperature when you get home; you seem a little feverish.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says.

Cas knows this kind of fever—he was a teenager, too, once—and he’s pretty sure the best cure would be for him to spread the greedy boy out right here on the table.  But he won’t, not yet. 

Instead he pats the kid on the shoulder.  “Did you make it down in time for Communion?”

 “Uh—no.  I mean, I came down…but I didn’t.  I couldn’t.”  Now that the object of his hunger is in front of him, Dean can’t imagine saying, _I was busy coming so hard I nearly passed out._  He bites his lip, just to see how that attracts Cas’s gaze and says the next best thing, an excuse any good Catholic boy would be able to defend.  “I haven’t confessed my sins.”


	4. Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think there might be a few continuity errors in this section, but I'm too high on cold meds to sort it out right now. Never heard from the OP, so first option to get ten votes in the comments wins: should Cas resist and leave Dean frustrated, or give in because porn?

Dean’s mother is a product of that swath of Great Plains settled by sternly religious German Catholics and Protestant Swedes, so she is full of vaguely Biblical proverbs.  When Sam takes the Philco radio apart to build a Morse transmitter like his favorite Hardy Boy, Mary Winchester announces that idle hands are the devil’s tools and follows through on her threat to sign him up for the Scouts' summer day camp.  Dean agrees that boredom and curiosity are a dangerous mix, but his _hands_ are not the part of his anatomy that cause him the most concern.

He thinks about the angel from the churchyard during his delivery runs and gets back to the store with the wrong change.  He turns himself into a prune masturbating in the dingy bathtub that is his only hope for privacy at home.  He even joins Mrs. Moresby’s stupid choir.  Having Castiel’s hands on him, even briefly, just fans the flames.  In addition to German Catholics, Dean comes from a long line of hunters: he knows that sometimes you have to wait very patiently to lure your prey, and you have to use very desirable bait.  

Dean strikes a deal with the old lady who lives opposite their apartment building: he’ll mow her lawn on the weekend if she’ll let him use her lawn-mower on Monday.  When she finds out he means to help mow the churchyard at Queen of Angels, she pinches his cheek and calls him a darling boy.   And come Monday, Dean filches one of Sammy’s baggy t-shirts (big on his brother, but snug enough to be enticing on anyone over ten) and wheels the borrowed mower five blocks over to present himself at the door of the rectory.

At the last minute, he panics at the thought of somehow running into his mother on the street and shrugs on an old flannel shirt. This provides him with the opportunity to strip off a layer when he switches places with Castiel, and Dean notices an appraising glance as the seminarian starts off to mow the next row.  Dean is not vain, but he is good at judging his assets and he knows he looks good.  He’s at the stage of early adolescence where every limb stretches out and any baby-fat just melts into muscle.  On top of which, you'd be fit too if you spent your days carrying groceries all over town.  

Dean’s never been much for team sports, but he’s always been athletic and so he’s graceful where other kids his age are gawky.  He arranges himself into a casual sprawl against a headstone, legs lolling open, and watches Cas mow his designated rows.  The theater where Dorrie works shows blue films—mostly men and women, but some just guys and Dean’s always leery of the ones that show huge men with ropes of muscles and wrists the size of his thigh.  That just looks painful.  But Cas…Cas is a good size, Dean has decided: tall enough, broad shoulders, powerful arms, but not _too_ big.  Big enough to feel taken, Dean imagines.  He imagines it _a lot._

On Monday, Cas looks like any college grad, mowing the lawn in old cords and a t-shirt that fits properly.  He's not like he’s actually a priest.  Yet.  Dean realizes that he’s going to have to move fast: in September, Castiel will be headed back to his seminary, somewhere in the mountains of Maryland and Dean will have lost his chance.  When he stands to take his turn with the mower, Dean makes sure he’s rucked up the shirt to show a casual sliver of his belly. 

After the third time they switch, Dean tugs off the sweaty shirt altogether and, taking a leaf from Cas, tucks it into the back of his jeans to twitch like a tail with every step he takes.  He doesn’t really have any chest-hair and there’s not much grass on the infield, but he has a few tufts coming in under his arms.  So blond it’s hardly worth bothering, but at least Cas will know he’s not a kid. He whiles away a few rows of drudgery wondering if Castiel is hairy: Dean can’t decide if a nice, thick pelt of dark hair would be arousing or revolting.

He doesn’t put his shirt on when Cas suggests they take a water break.  The rectory kitchen is dim and cool.  When Cas opens the old icebox, Dean feels a gust of chilly air that curdles his skin into goose bumps.  His nipples pucker so much it’s almost embarrassing, but he’s not going to back down now. Flaunt it if you’ve got it has always been Dean’s philosophy.  He leans back against the counter, propping his elbows on the Formica, and doesn’t say a word.   Cas pours him a jelly glass of ice water, and Dean makes sure their fingers touch during the hand-off. 

“Don’t you think you should get dressed?”  Cas says finally and Dean can almost see him wince at the way the words come out—it makes it sound like Dean is cavorting naked. 

Dean takes a gulp of water, shrugs. 

“I mean, this is a house of—” 

Dean rolls his eyes, trying to look like a stereotypical teenager, and turns his back, waggles his ass—inviting Cas to take the shirt hanging from his jeans.  “It’s not like we’re in church,” he says.  “It’s a kitchen.  We’re just people in a kitchen.”  He’s not going to let the words _priest, God, religion_ enter the conversation if he can avoid it…but he’s pretty sure he got Cas with the eye-roll.

Sure enough, he feels Castiel snap the shirt out of his waistband.  Dean waits a split second, so the seminarian has a nothing to do but stare at his ass and bare back, before he turns around.  When he sees the man hold out the t-shirt, he puts down his glass and obediently raises his arms like a child waiting to be dressed.

“Oh, please,” Cas sounds impatient, “you’re not an infant!”

“No,”  Dean retorts.  “I’m all grown up.  But if _you_ want me to wear that shirt, you’ll have to put it on me.”  Something in him senses that Cas is not going to back down or tolerate a lot of teenage sass and he’s right.  Cas huffs and wrestles the sleeves over Dean’s upraised hands.  Dean obediently ducks his head into the neckhole and, while still swathed in damp cotton, he feels Cas jerking the shirt down.  It really is too small and Cas has to tug and smooth it so the shoulders sit right.  When Dean’s head emerges, he’s looking right at Cas, six inches away. 

Cas pulls his hands away from the hem of the shirt.  “There—you got what you wanted,” he said, aware of how childish he sounds.  Dean slouches in front of him, hardened nipples poking visibly through the worn cotton, another hardness making his legs bow.  He lets his eyes come up to meet Cas’s, and he shakes his head.

***

“No.”

“No?”

“I—I want you to, to kiss me,” the kid says and Cas should be shocked.  He fully intends to be: who gets propositioned by jailbait in the kitchen of a church?  But it’s not like the kid hasn’t been showing off for the last two weeks—first in the organ loft, and then turning up in the vestry looking mouth-wateringly disheveled.  Last week he’d dashed into choir practice at the last minute, told Mrs. Moresby a long story about how he’d been at the pictures and the projector had broken and, and...  He hadn't even tried to cover the lovebite on his throat and Castiel spent the whole practice imagining Dean up in the balcony of a movie palace, necking with some girl-next-door.  And now the absolute _performance_ out in the churchyard this morning, watching the boy grow slicker with sweat, seeing his bare shoulders start to redden and freckle.

Cas sighs.  “Look, it’s natural to be curious at your age.   No doubt you have your eye on some pretty girl at your school.  And,uh, that’s to be expected—the Lord made them two by two…But church teachings are very clear and…”

“Don’t you _want_ to kiss me?”  The kid looks so charmingly shy, peeking up through his bangs, that Cas can’t help but reassure him.

“It’s not a question of wanting to or not.  I’m in a position of authority and it would be completely inappropriate for me to—”

“But what if I _asked_ you?  I am—asking you, I mean.  I want you to,” Dean says, as earnestly as though that solved all the problems, as though permission made it right. “Please?” he tacks on at the end, like that really might be a magic word.

“Dean, I don’t think you hear what I’m saying,” Cas begins, gently, only to be interrupted again.

“What if _I_ kissed _you_?” Dean’s expression turns truculent. “Would it be that bad?  Would you tell on me?” 

His voice is getting louder, challenging, so Cas steps closer to keep the conversation between them. And Dean pounces.  His lips are on Cas so quickly that the older man almost gasps in surprise.  Just as quickly, Dean’s smooth tongue is flickering into his mouth.  One of the boy’s arms comes up awkwardly to twine around Cas’s neck, the other clutches reflexively at his shirt, and when they almost over-balance, he ends up with Dean’s whole length pressed against him. 

Sweet Jesus, he’s _delicious_ —that’s Cas’s first shameful thought.  Dean smells like soap and fresh boysweat and newly-cut grass.  His lips are soft and warm, but the inside of his mouth is cold from the water.  He makes the sweetest little hungry whimper when Cas brings a hand up to cradle his head and deepen the kiss, just opens up completely.  Cas wants to _devour_ him, but settles for snugging the lean body closer, shifting one thigh between the kid’s legs, feeling the sharp hipbones as the boy begins to rut. 

Dean’s so innocent in his greed, demanding pleasure like it’s his due, with no thought of how beauty and willingness are valued in the world.  Cas doesn’t even mind that the boy knows so little he can barely return a kiss. He is so lovely to watch.  Castiel stores it up for the lonely nights at Emmittsburg: Dean’s wide, startled eyes looking up at him; the determined grinding of those bony hips; the rhythmic grunts, barely louder than a breath.  And then those green, green eyes squinch shut and Dean buries his face against Cas’s chest and his whole body undulates and shakes.  

Cas wraps his arms around the kid until this shivering slows—did the boy’s knees actually buckle?—and then tips his face up.  A kiss on the forehead; on the red-bitten lips; on each fluttering eyelid.  It’s like the sign of the cross: a benediction to sanctify Dean’s new and unholy knowledge. Castiel unwinds himself from Dean’s slack arms.  He needs to leave.  Now.  He’s had enough: the Lord punishes the avaricious.   He turns back at the door, unable to resist.  Dean is standing at the counter, head down.  He’s sweated through the t-shirt again; there’s a damp patch low on his back, above the curve of his ass, right where Cas would put his hand to escort him deeper into the house.  But he won’t.

“Dean?”

“Yessir?”  the response is automatic, but the _sir_ is rare enough that it gives Cas an unexpected thrill.  Father McCrory must be right: the priesthood is no longer a respected profession.

“Don’t mention this when you go to Confession.”


	5. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So far, the tally stands at 8-0 in favor of Cas giving in to Dean's charms, so we continue down the primrose path...

**Envy**

At the monthly choir rehearsal, Dean makes his voice crack on the very first hymn and Mrs. Moresby banishes him to Cas’s piano bench.  For practices, the choir meets in the old convent, which is tacked on behind the church.  Father McCrory keeps the place like the cloistered nuns that staffed the old parochial school might return any day. But the school has moved, there are mostly lay teachers now, and the Second Vatican Council currently meeting in Vatican City doesn't seem to share Father McCrory’s confidence.  The old bedrooms and chapel were left to dust until Mrs. Moresby had Castiel move the old upright from the chapel to the refectory and summoned her choristers to make joyful noise. 

There are only benches in the refectory, no chairs, so Dean has to sit right next to Cas once he’s exiled to turn pages.  He waits until a particularly complicated two-handed section of a new arrangement and then he wordlessly lays his palm on Cas’s black-clad knee.  Cas’s next note goes sharp and his leg jumps like it’s been hit with a reflex hammer.  Mrs. Moresby doesn’t notice the wrong key and no one can see Dean behind the piano, so he inches his hand higher. Cas hasn't actually told him _not_ to. On the next hymn, he keeps his hands to himself.  On the third, his makes his way all the way to Cas’s thigh.  And so on, through the entire Order of the Mass in Ordinary Time.

Cas stays behind after the practice, pretending to annotate his music, because it would be positively indecent to walk out as hard as he is.  He eases himself up when he finally hears Mrs. Moresby hand off the last child to its parents.  Dean walks home alone.  Cas had overheard him speaking to Mrs. Moresby:  “My mom’s working.  Anyway, I gotta pick my brother up from Scouts.”  Mrs. M. had looked particularly disapproving and Cas had agreed with her for once: a child like Dean  _really_ shouldn't be left unsupervised.  

Cas doesn’t believe the kid has actually left.   He imagines Dean is hiding behind every door on the short corridor back to the church, lurking in the virginal bedrooms of the long-gone nuns.  He’s almost disappointed to get to the end of the hallway, open the heavy door, and find himself in an antechamber that leads to the nave.

On Sunday, Dean sits primly between his mother and his brother like he has nothing but the rosary on his mind.  Except once, in the middle of Father McCrory’s long prayers for the conversion of the Soviet Union, Dean turns around, looks straight up at the organ loft, and licks his lips salaciously.

There are other incidents throughout the week, but Castiel is careful never to be alone in the church proper.  He’s not sure he’d be able to resist temptation a second time.   He seeks out work, odd jobs that he thinks of as penance: polishing the offertory plate, painting the wainscoting in the convent hallway corridor, alphabetizing the musical scores.  When he’s used up all the minor, thankless tasks he can think of he, he starts on the most minor, thankless of all. 

The Queen of Angels confessionals were built well before Vatican II, back when repentance was important because hellfire was real.  They are capacious: the central booth for the priest could probably hold three people and on each side, accessible by an ornate metal grille set in each wall, is a booth for the confessing parishioner that fits a prie-dieu and a heavy chair with room to spare.  Castiel can only imagine that the furniture was actually constructed inside the confessional booths because a quirk of the building’s construction means that each booth has a door that is barely wide enough for one person to squeeze in sideways.  Father McCrory likes to joke about “how straight the gate”, how entering heaven is more difficult than putting a camel through the eye of a needle.  In his month at Queen of Angels, Cas has heard every possible variation on these witticisms. 

When closed, the three doors—one for each booth—create a pretty inlaid pattern, complete with mullioned windows backed by thick velvet drapes.  The need to maintain the patter must explain their odd dimensions.  But it also means that the church cleaner, a force of nature named Araminta Leonidas, cannot fit her precious canister vacuum.  Instead, she fusses: the dust, the dust on the beautiful furniture, and so many feet on the carpet—sinful feet, she always adds, because everyone knows those feet are dirtier.  Mrs. Leonidas, widow of the parish, fusses frequently and vehemently and that is how Castiel ends up crouched on the floor, trying to fit a carpet-sweeper into the dark corners of the confessionals. 

He’s in the central chamber, the one meant for the priest, when someone pulls aside the small curtain over the grille and begins to speak. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” 

“Father McCrory won’t be taking confession for another fifteen mi—” Cas begins.  He cannot hear confessions or absolve sins until he is ordained…something that is beginning to look unlikely, given his recent proclivities.

“I have had impure thoughts,” the voice continues, and it’s not until it cracks on “about a man of the cloth,” that Cas recognizes Dean Winchester.

When he pulls aside the curtain covering the grille, he  can see the mischievous green eyes from the confesional.  Dean moves and his succulent mouth comes into view, a smirk framed in the small, square opening.

“Dean!  You cannot be in there.  I’m serious.  Have _some_ respect for the sacraments!”

“With my body,” Dean intones, “I, thee worship.”

Cas scrambles upright and eases himself out of the central booth, hauling the carpet brush with him.  When he wrenches open the door to the left-hand confessional, Dean is kneeling piously at the prie-dieu. 

Dean blinks innocently. “Oh, this one’s occupied,” he says, and butter wouldn’t melt.  He leans over and flips a switch next to Castiel’s elbow.  Cas knows that outside, above the narrow door, a red lightbulb has just sparked to life, telling all and sundry that this confessional is unavailable.  The system has always made him think of the do-not-disturb checks on Pullman car berths or hotel room doors.  He takes a deep breath: _Dean Winchester_ and _hotel rooms_ should never occupy the same thought. 

When he's regained his equilibrium, Cas squeezes in and lets the door close behind him.  Dean looks up at him, blameless as an angel in the muted yellow light of the old sconce above his head.  The ancient bulb buzzes and hums.  Suddenly, with two people and all the furniture and the velvet and the near-darkness, the confessional is not as large as Cas had imagined.  The last time Dean was looking up at him like that, it was because he’d just trembled through the most beautiful orgasm Cas has ever had occasion to witness. 

Cas drops into the chair.  “Dean,” he hisses. “This has got to stop.”

Dean blinks again.  “Why?”

That pulls Cas up short.  “Well—well, you’re far too young, for one thing.  And for another…” Dean’s pout is so distracting that Cas actually forgets his other reason for a moment.  “I’m studying to be a _priest_ , for heaven’s sake.”

“How young is too young to know what you want?” Dean muses, shifting to sit on the kneeler.  “ _I_ know.  If you won’t give it to me, I’ll go somewhere else—but I trust _you_.  And besides, you’re a priest; it’s not like I’m taking you away from your wife.”  Plaintively, he adds, “Isn’t a priest supposed to help when people need them?  And not judge?”

Castiel does not know how this extraordinary boy picked him out as a kindred spirit.  _Cast your bread upon the waters..._ His logic is perilously close to the reasons Cas had given himself for his earlier dalliances.  The novice nun, the junior seminarian: they should know what they were giving up before they sign on to a life of celibacy.  And as for the high-school girl; well, she _had_ known what she’d wanted, and Castiel had enjoyed giving it to her.  Gently, safely, the way he’d touch Dean if…

The train of thought is derailed when Cas hears the creak of hinges.  Someone has opened the confessional on the far side of the priest’s box. Cas snatches up Dean’s wrist, ready to haul him out before Father McCrory comes.  But he pauses, suddenly aware of faint noises making their way through the broad wooden door.  Saturday confession is always well-attended by those who wish to confess before Sunday communion.  He could be hauling this slutty little nymphomaniac out in front of half the parish.  The _devout_ half. 

The delay is fatal: Cas hears another set of hinges.  The priest’s box is now occupied by his superior, Father McCrory.  The sconce flickers as the other parishioner dutifully turns on the red light outside his booth.  With both sconces buzzing and the distant noises from the crowd waiting in the church, Cas can’t actually hear the priest murmuring confidentially to the other parishioner, but he doesn’t want to risk speaking.

Dean smoothly turns his hand in Castiel’s grip. He lets his long, warm fingers trail along Cas’s wrist and Cas releases him like his fingers can burn.  No matter; he doesn't have to be touching Dean: they're still trapped in this very small room.  Dean eases over, never rising from his knees, places one hand on Cas’s thigh and lays a finger against his own lips.   As though _Cas_ would signal their presence...he does have to bite his tongue, though, when Dean's clever hands reach his trouser flies. Cas isn’t even wearing his priestly blacks, never mind his cassock.  He’s dressed in the old cords he keeps for chores.  Dean has them open in a split-second.  He hefts Cas’s thickening cock through his y-fronts and his eyes jump from Cas’s face to the head of his prick, just slipping out. 

Any moment now, someone is going to open the door, red light be damned.  Or Father McCrory will absolve the other parishioner and turn to pull the curtain on the left side.  It might take the old man’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gritty yellowed light, but once he does, he’ll see a slender teenager on his knees, head in Cas’s lap. 

Dean licks the head of Castiel’s cock with a quick pink tongue—softly, kitten-like. He withdraws an inch, studies, leans in to breathe a hot gust on Cas’s balls.  Cas can _feel_ them draw up, tight enough to burst.  He is already so hard that his cockhead bounces against Dean’s cheek.  The smear of precome shines in the diffuse light.

Trapped in silence, Cas reaches out to hold Dean back, but Dean somehow ducks under the hand and nuzzles it.  Instead of deflecting the boy, Cas finds himself petting.  Dean locks his eyes on Cas’s and takes the cockhead into his mouth, plays his tongue along the slit, along the nerves under the tip.  Cas bites his lip fiercely.  The boy clearly knows what he’s doing—and where, precisely did he learn?!—but he’s too gentle.   God help him: Cas needs _more_.

But maybe this is how Dean likes it?  Yes, of course: his little cock is probably too tender for anything intense.  He is doing precisely unto others what he likes having done to him, and Cas files it away.  Surely he’s only done this with other boys his age?  Cas feels a stab of envy.  Boys will be boys, but have there been other _men_ in Dean’s perfect mouth?

Forgetting the fact that he should be resisting, Cas lets his hand slide down to cup Dean’s head.  He’s gotten a haircut, a boy’s summer cut.  The hair is as heartbreakingly soft as down if you stroke it with the curve of his head and surprisingly spiky if you go against the grain.  He puts his hand on Dean’s neck, begins to coax him to take a little more. 

Cas is almost shaking with arousal and anxiety.  Any moment, he’ll hit Dean’s gag and the boy won’t be able to stay silent.  But Dean seems to know where to stop.  It’s a lot further than Cas would have expected.  The creak of hinges and they both freeze, Dean’s mouth spread wide around fully two-thirds of Cas’s thick dick.  Distantly, a faint mumble: another parishioner beginning the familiar formula— _Bless me, Father._

Dean strokes him so slowly, mouth on his cock, fingers on his balls, that Cas comes slowly, too.  Instead of exploding, he finds himself bobbing along on the waves of a long, soothing climax that takes _ages_ to die out.  It leaves him wrung-out and enervated and not at all able to give Dean the talking-to he so richly deserves.   When Dean finally pulls his mouth off, Cas’s cock is limp and spent.  Dean magics a white handkerchief from somewhere and dabs at his swollen lips.  Cas gasps when the cambric is applied to tucking him back into his trousers: it feels like sandpaper after Dean’s lush tongue. He’s been clenching his teeth into silence for so long that his jaw aches when he opens it.

“My mom always says you should bring a handkerchief to church,” Dean says lowly and Cas has a palm over his mouth before he realizes that he can’t hear the sound of other parishioners or Father McCrory.  How long have they been here?  How has _no one_ opened the door?

“See? No one was watching.”  Dean’s lips move against Cas’s hand.  And he’s right, of course:  each parishioner had entered the right-hand confessional as it became available, simply assuming that the left was in use by someone else.   Once absolved, they went to say their penitential rosaries elsewhere in the church. No one ever watched long enough to realize that the left-hand door was never opened and the occupied light never extinguished. And Father McCrory?  Well, there’s a reason the man ended up at this under populated, tattered parish.  He’s easily confused and doubtlessly thought it was the _right side_ confessional that had been occupied when he started taking confession.  Not a bright man, he probably wouldn’t have noticed or wondered that every single confessor pulled aside the curtain on his right side.

Cas figures he might as well be damned for a heretic and he bends down to lick Dean’s talented mouth.  The boy is too smart, too daring for his own good.  Why, in the name of all that’s holy, couldn’t he be six years older?

Dean pulls back as though he can taste Cas’s thoughts.  “I want more,” he says bluntly as he stands.  Despite being crouched down for so long, he is supple as a geisha.

“And I’ll get it, too.  If you won’t fuck me, I’ll get someone else to help me.” Again, Castiel feels a flood of jealousy, provoked by the boy’s youth, his confidence, the thought of others who would get to _help_. Dean’s determined voice is gravelly rough now.  It doesn’t break at all.  “Swear to God, I will.”


	6. Wrath

 It’s not that Castiel _doubts_ that Dean will do precisely what he says.  No, Dean doesn’t seem the type to back down from an ultimatum, even if it’s his own. Cas just hadn’t expected him to move so _fast_. 

Ten minutes after he’d slunk out of the confessional, Cas had run smack into Father McCrory in the rectory.

“You look a bit peaky!” the old priest had announced. “Mrs. Leonidas said you’ve been working in the church all day!  Go lie down a bit—there’s no music at the Saturday evening service anyway.  Even the good Lord himself rested when he saw that his work was good!”. 

Unable to explain what he’d been up to in the church all day, Cas had simply acquiesced.   In fact, when he'd spotted Dean, he'd actually been on his way up to his room.  To rest.  Well, up to toss and turn and imagine and finally, sheepishly, slip a hand into his pajamas and pretend it belongs to someone else…

One of the many quirks of Queen of Angels is the lack of windows overlooking the cemetery. It’s rare for a Catholic church to be set so close to a graveyard and evidently, the long-ago architect felt the Church should turn its face to the street and let the dead bury the dead.  One of the few rear windows happens to grace the staircase that leads to Cas’s dreary guest quarters.  Castiel gravitates toward it; his eyes seem unable to adjust to any light after the dim light of the confessional.  He looks out blindly at the churchyard, still in the hot summer afternoon, and it takes him a moment to recognize Dean crossing among the graves. 

Cas wonders if he’s going to meet someone, perhaps under that tree where they’d first talked? Someone who would _help_ with the pesky problem of his virginity? Again, Castiel feels a biting jealousy.  Dean cuts around the convent and by the time the boy is back in view, Cas has made up his mind: if he’s not sleeping with Dean, then no one else is, either.

Cas dashes down the stairs, hesitating only a moment before heading into the churchyard.  Father McCrory will be busy with preparations for Saturday evening mass; Cas is supposed to be sleeping the sleep of the innocent.  No one will miss him.  The boy is _not_ under the tree by the marble bench, but from there Cas can see him leaving by the little used side entrance, out onto Deloit Street.

Dean turns to the right, continues down the street, jaywalks to the far side with a rolling, bowlegged walk that implies he owns the whole block.  Most of the buildings on Deloit are shuttered: a side-street bordering a cemetery is not prime real-estate. There’s a photo shop that’s open, big Kodachrome sign in the window, and grim-looking stationary shop.  Dean heads for a large yellow building at the end of the street that must be a movie theater, given the drooping marquee and the ticket booth under it.  He cuts into the alley next door and Cas loses sight of him.

Cas waits, counts to ten, feels the old paint on the wrought iron gate sticking to his sweating palms.  He lets himself out of the churchyard and meanders down Deloit, careful not to cross the street.  If anyone recognizes him, he’ll say he’s checking the cemetery fence.

When he gets to the theater, the last building before the street dead-ends into trees and bracken, he sees Dean waiting in the shadow of the alley.  He’ll cross and say…what?  _What_? That he can’t give the boy what he wants?  That he can?  That he _will?_   Somehow, actually seeing Dean kicking his heels in jeans and sneakers and a faded blue shirt just starting to stretch as his shoulders develop—it has a way of erasing all of Cas’s good intentions. 

Before Cas can decide whether to cross the street or not, the stage door opens.  A figure—pink dress, pale blond hair—beckons Dean inside the theater.  He jogs up the stairs, kisses her full-on, deeply, until finally she slaps his ass and pushes him into the building. 

Well.  Well, _that_ was certainly not what Castiel had expected.  So Dean had a girl.  Maybe a little older than he was?  Cas hadn’t been able to tell if she’d been tall or just wearing heels.  Heels, probably: he’d only seen her for a second, but there’d been something curious about the way she’d moved. But if there was a girl, why all the flirting?  More than flirting: Cas had basically been propositioned.   Of course, there were things a man could do that a girl couldn’t…but Dean was awfully young to want _both_.  Besides, there had been _something_ when Dean was on his knees in the confessional—a hesitation, a curiosity—that made Cas doubt Dean and the girl had gotten much beyond kissing and fumbling.

“You gonna watch the pitcher or you gonna watch the theater?”

Cas’s eyes snap from the alley to the ticketbox, where someone has raised the ticket-window to shout at him.

Cas crosses the street hastily, before the man can yell again, or louder.  Up close, he can see grizzled fireplug of a man behind the ticket window.  He looks like he’d be more suited to running a junkyard than a movie theater.  Of course, this close, Cas also sees that the Domino Theater has no play bills and nothing on the marquee.  The doors have smoked-glass portholes and there’s no other way to see inside.  Cas suspects he knows what kind of films this place shows.

“Show’s started: y’kin buy a ticket or y’kin take a hike, pal,”  the man says gruffly.  He’s a big guy in a flannel shirt with a graying undershirt underneath.

Cas has to look down to remind himself that he’s not wearing his Roman collar or his black suit, just the same old clothes he’d put on to clean the confessional carpets.  “Ticket,” he finds himself saying.

The price is higher than he’d expected, but he fishes a few quarters from his pocket and exchanges it for a grimy, round token. 

“Don’t got no ushers.  Just the one usherette, and she’s on break,” the man leers.  “Boys or girls?” the man asks. 

“I, uh—”

“Theater Two, I think,” the man gives him a smug look and nods toward the blind doors. 

Inside, the Domino Theater looks no better than it ought to be: a small movie palace struck down by the Depression, barely revived by the newsreel-mania of the War years, slowly sinking ever since.  The lobby was once pretty, but now the floor is scratched and the gilded ceiling is flaking.  The theater itself has been divided into two screening rooms, in a poorly-thought-out attempt to compete with newer multiplexes and drive-ins.  Cas has no idea where Dean might be, so he takes the ticket-seller’s suggestion and plumps for theater two.

Oh.  Boys.  Two of them—larger than life on the big screen.  The young one, maybe 18 or 20, is a blond Adonis in the lap of an older man with shaggy, hippie hair.  The lobby is so dark that Cas can stand for a full ten seconds in the doorway before someone hisses at him to shut the goddamn door.  He hesitates for just a moment, and then step into the full darkness and lets the door close behind him.

The theater was small before it was chopped in half, now it’s small and awkward. The floor is sticky under Cas’s shoes.  He’s aware of a narrow doorway to his left leading up to a balcony that only makes the room seem tinier.  Thirty or so plush auditorium seats rake down to the screen.  Roughly a third are filled, but it’s hard to tell how many people are in the room.  A soft grunt and the occupant of one seat silhouetted against the screen suddenly becomes two people. Farther down the row to Cas’s right, he can hear a couple kissing and then, wetter than kissing…

A man turns around from a row ahead, holds out a hand.  “You wanna…?” The face is half-hidden by long hair, someone on top of him, Cas can’t tell if the second person is male or female.  But the voice is not Dean’s .  Cas shakes his head, not sure if he’s even visible in the dim light, and turns.  He should go right back outside, into the clean heat of the summer evening: he could probably still make it back to Queen of Angels in time for Saturday’s Mass.  Instead, he turns left, goes up the small staircase.  It’s claustrophobically narrow and smells of bleach, but Cas stumbles up until he finds himself on the balcony.  The seats up here are fewer, all empty, though Cas can hear the crowd below: rustling, sighing, the occasional whimper.

There’s something wrong with the sound of the movie, Cas realizes when his pulse slows enough that he can focuses on screen.  Probably because it’s not a proper film at all.  The boy, the muscled blond one, is posing for nude pictures shot by the hippie.  Cas isn’t even sure they realize they’re being filmed.  The blond certainly doesn’t.  The older man is evidently giving him directions.  When the sound cuts in, the words are mundane—“yes, like that, just spread your knees a little.  Lean over the sofa.  Good, now look at me.  No, look over your shoulder…”—but Cas finds the silent parts curiously arousing.  The photographer doesn’t hesitate to physically arrange his model with a possessive and yet impersonal hand: moving the blond’s arm to get a better shot of his belly,  pinching his nipples, stroking his thigh.  When the blond’s impressive erection flags, the photographer sets down his camera, sits on the sofa, and tugs the teenager onto his lap.  The blond looks hesitant for a moment, but then the photographer says something to make him laugh and begins to gently fondle him back to hardness. 

Cas finds it oddly exciting to watch he sweet wonderment on the blonde’s face as the more experienced man teases and displays him for the hidden camera.  He doesn’t want to think about why, so he glances down into the theater, instead.  And there below him, virtually spotlit by one of the red fire-alarm lamps, is Dean Winchester.   He’s sprawled in one of the overstuffed seats with the girl between his widespread knees.  Her hair looks orange in the light and as Cas watches, Dean reaches down to run his hands through the curls.  Dean’s head lolls back and Cas can see the moment when he realizes he’s being watched—when he recognizes Cas less than ten feet above him. 

Cas hadn’t really thought about what would happen if he’d actually found Dean.  He’d had vague plans of dragging him out of this den of pornography and….well, either going straight to his mother and assigning him 8000 decades of the rosary, or conversely, fucking him against the wall in the alley by the stage door.  He would have expected Dean to be embarrassed or brazen.  He does not expect Dean’s face to open into that beatific smile.  Dean spreads his legs wider, tugs up his shirt, gently angles the girl’s head a little,  all without looking away from Cas’s face.  He’s offering himself, advertizing, and the display is a thousand times more erotic than anything on the screen.  Cas watches as Dean’s mouth opens, his eyes squint shut, fluttering eyelids, bitten lips, an almost pained expression crossing his red-washed face. His eyes snap open at the moment of orgasm, staring straight up, sharing it with Cas.

When the girl clambers up to kiss Dean, Cas has to look away.  On the screen, the blond is coming like a firehose, but Castiel is suddenly uninterested.  When he glances down again, he sees the girl has perched in the seat next to Dean and they are whispering.  Suddenly, the theater starts to grow brighter.  Cas looks up to see the picture on the screen slowly being consumed by a bright white spot.  Then the picture disappears.  A moment of blackness lit only by the red firelamp and then a few tactfully dim houselights come up.  Dean’s companion jumps to her feet, straightens her dress, and makes her way down to the proscenium.

“Gennulmen,” she announces to a few wolf whistles, “there’s been a, uhm, technical fault.  If you’ll just be patient, our show will go on!”

By the time she curtseys, Cas is already making his way across the poky balcony, down the stairs.  At the bottom, he almost collides with Dean, who has made his way over to the aisle to intercept his usherette.

The three of them end up stumbling out to the lobby.

“This is the third time Mike’s let a reel burn through,” the girl is saying, annoyed.  “At least he had the sense to turn the goddamn projector off before it caught fire.  Anyway, I gotta go splice it together—thanks, kiddo,” she accepts the scrap of silky fabric Dean hands her, quickly ties it around her neck.  “See ya,” she fluffs her scarf, offers her cheek for a quick peck, and clicks off across the floor.  

She is wearing heels—which doesn’t mean anything.  Lots of girls are less than graceful.  And her rough voice could be explained by the fact that she’d had her boyfriend’s dick down her throat not five minutes before.  But without her scarf, the Adam’s apple is plainly visible above the collar of her blouse.

“She’s a boy,” Cas says, blunt and low, when Dean turns to face him. 

Dean blinks. “Yeah.  I know.  Name’s Dorrie.  She works here.”

“ _He_ works here.” 

Dean rolls his eyes.  Teenager.  “Okay, whatever.”

Cas closes the space between them, forcing Dean to move back against the closed theater door.  He can hear a new film start up through the thin wall: moaning, a grunt. “Is he the one you’re going to let fuck you?” Cas is deliberately crude, annoyed that Dean would give himself to that little sissy. 

Dean looks up, his pupils blown black in dark lobby.  He licks his lips.  “What do you care?”

Cas grabs his shoulder as he turns to go back into the theater, pushes him against the door hard enough that the flimsy hinges squeak.  He can feel Dean’s biceps compress;  Jesus, all that young, coiled strength _wasted_ on Dorrie?  “Who?”

Dean flashes that careless grin, “Wouldn’t you like to kn—”

“Tell me,” Cas says, and he’s practically growling the words.  He’s got one hand wrapped around Dean’s upper arm, but his other slides right off the boy’s shoulder and tips his chin up so he can’t help but meet Cas’s eyes.  Dean tries to twist away, just once, but when he feels Cas’s grip, suddenly all the fight goes out of him.

“Bo-Bobby, okay?” Dean stammers, both desperate and ashamed of his desperation.  “I was gonna see if Bobby would.  Y’know.  After he closes up.”

Cas doesn’t know who—and then a horrified thought creeps into his brain.  “Is he…does he—?”

“He owns the theater,” Dean says, sulkily.  “Prob’ly sold you your ticket.”

The grizzled old junker in the flannel.

“I told my Ma I was gonna spend the night at Chris’s—he works with me, at Feldstein’s grocery.  But really, I was going to…I mean, I’ve been hanging around and Bobby hasn’t ever said, but Dorrie told me he likes…”  Dean peters out into silence. 

“No,”  Cas says firmly.  “Absolutely not.”  Cas had been annoyed by the thought of Dean settling for Dorrie, but the very idea of the boy giving himself up to _Bobby_ , a man so coarsened and jaundiced by a lifetime selling cutrate filth that he hadn’t even noticed the beautiful boy right in front of him. No—some things are just too unholy for words. Something of his disgust must tinge his words because he can see Dean’s jaw fix stubbornly.

“I told you I would,”  Dean begins, tenacious as a bulldog.  “I’m ready, I—”

Cas kisses the next words right off his lips: a quick clash of teeth and then he’s licking deep into Dean’s mouth, feeling the boy’s chest hitch as he tries to breathe and gasp and return the kiss at the same time.  Dean grabs what he can—a fistful of Cas’s sleeve and the curve of his ass—and gives himself up.  At last, at last.

 


	7. Pride

 Dean follows, calm and docile now that he’s getting it way.  Once they enter the church, Cas reaches out to take his hand, lacing his fingers through Dean’s and towing the boy behind him as he stops in the sacristy.  Dean tries to tug him into an old bathroom that Cas hadn’t even known was there, but Saturday evening Mass will start in a half-hour so Cas  merely gives him a quick peck and starts opening closets and cupboards.  Once he has what he needs, he leads Dean quickly to the far side of the church. 

Only four people have keys to the old convent, and Cas is one of them thanks to the old piano and Mrs. Moresby’s choir rehearsals.  It’s the most private place he can think of and once they’re inside, Cas presses Dean up against the wall and opens the boy’s mouth with his tongue.  He kisses until Dean is mewling and squirming against him. 

“I want to have you on the table in the refectory,” Cas whispers, imagining the young limbs spread over the scarred old oak. “Or over that goddamn piano bench, you little tease.  Maybe in the bath—the nuns have a huge old tub, can’t think how they got _so_ _dirty_ ,” he pants. Dean would sound so pretty, cries magnified by the tiled walls in the room where Cas had rinses his brushes after painting the convent walls.  “Did you know they had a little garden?  Walled, of course.  I could keep you out there all afternoon and no one would know it.” He is kissing Dean’s throat, mouthing along his jaw, feeling the kid’s Adam’s apple jump as he gasps, _yes, yes_.  “Christ, Dean, I’d take you in the fucking _chapel_!”

Dean moans at that, his whole body convulsing under Cas’s larger frame.

Cas draws back:  he’d known teenagers had hair-triggers, but had he really just…?  In his pants?  Untouched?

He doesn’t have to ask:  the suspicion is confirmed by the same hot flush that Cas had seen the first day they’d met. 

“I’m s-sorry,” Dean starts, his eyes dropping to the floor.  “I couldn’t help, uhm…I…” 

Cas tilts the boy’s head up.  Dean actually has tears in his eyes.  Cas presses a gentle kiss to his burning cheek.  “Don’t apologize.  Never apologize.”

Dean’s spontaneous orgasm makes Cas’s blood throb in his veins, but it also makes him reign in his wilder fantasies.  Dean may be eager,  and he’s certainly precocious,  but he’s still very new to all of this.  His first time should be in a proper bed.  Fortunately, the convent has many to choose from. 

The bedrooms on the bottom floor are dark and unwelcoming, but up the narrow staircase, at the far end of the second floor, one room that is flooded with late-afternoon sunlight.  It is a plain cell with an old-fashioned featherbed on a narrow, white-painted bedstead.  Opposite, there is a washstand with a flowered jug, a crucifix on the wall. Nothing else.  Like the rest of the building, it smells like incense and dust.

Castiel drops his supplies on the bed and wrestles open the old window.  The swollen wooden sash screeches, but they’re far enough away from the solid stone walls of the church that there’s no one to hear it.  Nothing but the rustle of churchyard trees and toll of the churchbell calling the devout to Mass.  When he turns back to the room, he sees that Dean has kicked off one of his canvas sneakers, pulled his shirt over his head and then—stopped, suddenly unsure.  He looks shatteringly young, standing in this prim room with his t-shirt pulled to his thin chest. 

“We don’t have to,” Cas says—which, considering how badly he wants this, may be the most virtuous thing he’s ever said.  “Or we can just…” he tries to think of a reasonable substitute.  “Just kiss?  You don’t have to get undressed.”

“No!” Dean shakes his head violently.   “No.  I want to,” he repeats.  “I want it all.  I just—it’s funny, after all this wanting.  To know that this is the place.”  He touches the bolster at the foot of the bed, draws his finger across the dusty wash-stand. 

To give him a moment of privacy, Cas unfurls the altar cloth he took from the sacristy, opening it with a snap and letting the starched white fabric drift down to cover the nun’s old bed.  Then he leaves Dean to contemplate this new altar and takes the flowered pitcher down the hall to the bathroom.  As he lets the water run through the creaking pipes until it warms, he studies his own face in the big, wood-framed mirror over the sink. 

He half expects the hidden, virginal room to be empty when he returns, but it is not.  Dean is sitting on the bed, ragged jeans against the white embroidered cloth, pulling at a knot in his shoelace.  Cas puts the pitcher on the floor and props the mirror, unhooked from the bathroom wall, on the washstand.  He removes the insert of his Roman collar and starts unbuttoning his plain, black shirt.

“What’s that for?” Dean nods to the mirror as Cas kneels to undo the ratty shoelace. 

Cas pulls off the shoe, peels away Dean’s sock, and holds the boy’s pale foot in his hand. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, plainly.  “I want you to see how beautiful you are.”

Dean flops back onto the bed, embarrassed by the compliment.  His foot flexes in Cas’s grasp.  “Tickles,” he says, but he holds out his other foot so Cas can remove the sock and he lifts his hips obediently when Cas undoes the buttons of his jeans. 

“Jesus,” Cas says involuntarily when he has Dean spread out on the bed in nothing but underpants.  It doesn’t feel like he’s taking the Lord’s name in vain: it feels like a prayer of gratitude.

“Want you t’leave your clothes on,” Dean says, his words sounding thick in his mouth.  “Just for now?”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Cas agrees, pleased that Dean feels he can arrange things.  “Just taking off my shirt to clean you up a little, is all.”  He wonders if Dean is remembering the movie, with the older man still dressed and the younger one vulnerable and nude.

Cas gently eases off Dean’s underwear, then carefully dips his shirt into the warm water and swabs away his earlier ejaculation.  Dean’s arms and chest are toasted a tanned brown against the white cloth, but he must be more modest than his behavior would let on because below his navel, he’s all pink and white.  The black fabric looks obscene.  Dean sighs and opens his legs, still sensitive, twitching when Cas lifts his slender cock to clean his balls.  He’s uncut, his foreskin a little tassel, and his hole flutters when Cas touches it. 

There’s a waxy red smear low on Dean’s belly—Dorrie’s lipstick kiss—and Dean’s hips jump when Cas touches the thin skin there.

“Does she swallow, when you come?  Your friend?” Cas asks.

“Yeah,” Dean’s eyes are at half-mast, words almost drunk. “Yeah—she, she’s good.”

Cas rubs his cheek against the soft golden peachfuzz on Dean’s thigh, debating whether or not to be deliberately crude. “Have you fucked her?”

“Nnn…” Dean shakes his head, “She doesn’t want ...  Cause she’s not, y’know…”

Dean shrugs, like Dorrie’s proclivities are no more significant than preferring the Yankees to the Royals.  Innocent, naïve, remarkable. A little child shall lead them.  Cas rewards him with a kiss as the root of his cock and then, just before he takes Dean’s balls into his mouth, he asks “Has she fucked you?”

Dean gasps when Cas engulfs him.  His hands fly down to tangle in Cas’s hair.  “Oh, oh! God, feels so…ugh, n,no. Just f-fuck!  Just-fingers.” 

“Two?”

“Uh-huh.  Three, once.”

Cas thumbs Dean’s hole.  Three fingers is more than he’d hoped for.  “Bear down,” he whispers, “here,” and he taps the furled pink muscle between Dean’s asscheeks.  He’s wet there, shining with spit and precum and when he pushes himself open, Cas’s fingertip is sucked right in.

Less than a quarter-inch, but Cas showers him with praise and kisses—his thighs, his belly, his newly-swelling little prick—and then rises from the floor to sit on the bed.  He grabs Dean’s hips and hauls the boy over his knee, as though for a spanking. Dean laughs and wriggless, half on the bed and half off.   

From the vestry, Cas had brought a heavy ampulla of chrism, the holy oil used in various Catholic sacraments.  The oil is thick, a viscous honey-color, and scented with balsam and herbs. Poured, it slides over Dean’s skin like a dream, across the small of his back, between the sculpted curves of his ass.  Cas massages it in firmly, working it into Dean’s back and thighs until the kid is puddle on the bed, his long legs draped pliantly over Castiel.  He stretches languorously as a cat when Cas drips oil right onto his hole, gets a full finger into him.  Dean makes a low begging noise as Cas works in a second finger. 

“Still good?” Cas asks, and Dean groans into the mattress. He rocks his hips a little, rubbing his thickening cock against Cas’s trousers. He’s come twice that afternoon, but he’s a teenager. Cas eases his second knuckle in and Dean’s breathing speeds up.  Cas runs his hand down Dean’s bare back: so responsive.  So _tight_. He’s going to have to relax a little more if Cas is ever going to get more than half-way in. 

Cas eases his fingers out, giving Dean’s ass a consolatory pat when the boy whines at the loss. He wipes his fingers on his undershirt, then tugs the whole garment off.  He shifts Dean onto the bed and undresses, aware that the kid has turned to watch. 

“Do you want to stop?” Cas asks, when he’s standing naked and mostly hard under Dean’s gaze.  Dean blinks up from his sprawl on the bed, looking a little stunned to actually have a full-grown, aroused man in front of him. Then he shakes his head decisively.  He has to lick his lips twice before he can get the words out.  “No.  No.  I want.  I want you.  To touch you.”   

And he does, so curious and clinical that Cas knows he’s never done this before, that he and Dorrie haven’t gotten beyond half-clothed fumblings in the dark of the theater.  Dean touches Cas’s stubbled throat, pinches one nipple, combs through his chest hair, traces a finger along his dripping cock.  He kneels on the bed, pressing his naked length against Cas’s body, and tips is head up for a kiss, sucking on Cas’s tongue when the man reaches around to palms his ass. 

“Lay down again, darling.  Spread your legs,” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s mouth, gratified when the kid flops down immediately, drawing his knees up under himself.  Cas gropes on the floor for the vial of oil and anoints Dean’s  fluttering hole again.  Dean makes a quizzical noise when he feels the blunt touch, but he just doesn’t turn to look. 

“C’mon,” Cas encourages, “open for me.”  His tool this time is one of the plain, white wax tapers that light the Queen of Angels altar.  Father McCrory buys them in dozens for the church’s various sconces and candelabra.  Cas has planned to use the narrow wick end, but now, with Dean laid out before him and  squirming with eagerness, he changes his mind.  The base of the candle is twice as thick as his thumb, smooth and cylindrical, squared off to fit the socket of the candle-holder.  Dean lets out a long, tremulous, “oooh” as Cas pushes it into his body. 

“Look at me, beautiful?” Castiel asks and Dean obediently turn his head, one flushed cheek pressed against the bed.  His reddened mouth opens and closes slowly as Cas moves candle in and out, a little deeper with each pass.  Twice, Cas pauses, thinking the kid wants to say something, but each time, Dean just blinks at him sleepily.  He’s so relaxed, so deep in the realm of fullness, that when Cas finally shifts the candle against his prostate, Dean just looks puzzled for a moment.  Then his hips bounce twice, his breath catches—“uhnn, Ca’…uhh,”—and he comes in gentle, whimpering waves. 

Third orgasm’s the charm, leaving Dean open and wet and passive. Holy Trinity, Castiel thinks, before putting that idea firmly out of his head. Cas had vague plans of letting Dean ride him his first time, but the kid is so blissed out, he can barely coordinate himself enough to open his eyes when Cas tosses the candle aside.

He eases himself behind Dean, enjoying the contrast of his black-haired thighs against Dean’s pale ass.  Dean is so limp with pleasure that Cas has to wrap one arm around the boy’s chest and lift him up until he’s kneeling, his back against Cas’s front.  This way, Cas can see his expression in the mirror. 

“Ready?” he asks.  

Dean’s glassy eyes meet his in the mirror.  “Please,” he whispers.  “Oh, my God, _please_.”

“Language,” chides Cas, and so the sound that Dean makes when Castiel finally enters him is halfway between a laugh and a moan.

Cas lets one hand hover, just skimming Dean’s belly, ready to pull the boy back if he startles away, but he opens, as warm and soft as melting butter. He manages three inches or so in the first push, and then Dean reaches back with one flailing hand to anchor himself with a handful of Cas’s hair. His other hand digs into Cas’s thigh until Cas catches his wrist, presses a kiss to his palm, and guides Dean’s trembling fingers between his own legs. 

“You—you’re inside me,” Dean breathes, fingers dance over his stretched hole, like feeling is believing.

He looks so innocently astonished at this impossible arrangement that Cas has to kiss him. “You want more?”

“Fuckyes,” Dean pants in one breath and this time, Cas does not correct his word choice. 

Castiel watches a pinkness rise up Dean’s chest as he takes another inch.  The boy’s head drops forward, allowing kisses on the vulnerable nape. Another inch. “Oh.  Oh, Christ,” Dean bites his lip, tossing his head back against Cas’s shoulder.

Cas has to close his eyes, navigate by feel.  He’s not huge, but he must feel that way. He runs his hands over Dean’s thighs, long sweeping strokes to ease the tight muscles there, then up to play with his nipples. A grunt—the last inch, a little more, and then Cas nuzzles the boy’s throat, licks the pulse throbbing there, whispers, “that’s it; you have all of me.”

Dean cries out—a high sweet vowel—when Cas’s balls finally touch his ass. 

The verse that pops into Cas’s head when he finally opens his eyes and sees the mirror is the shortest in the Bible: Jesus wept. The mirror cuts off Dean’s reflection from about the nose up, but the rest of him is on display, with Cas’s own bigger, coarser body visible behind.  Dean’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, his nipples dark and tight.  Cas’s hands look massive against the milky skin of Dean’s hips.  He can feel Dean’s heartbeat, his quick breaths; he’d half-expected to see the outline of his own cock pressing against the kid’s belly from inside.

“Show me,” Cas murmurs, and he says it like a prayer. 

Dean seems dazzled by his own reflection, his hands dart to stroke Cas’s thigh, to touch his own chest. 

“Show me.”  And Dean’s right hand drops lower, shyly gathers up his soft little cock, his empty balls, and lifts them against his stomach, shows off the place where he and Cas are joined.

Cas knows he is damned from that moment on—damned venially and forever.  The only salvation he will ever experience is in this bed.  Nothing for it but to take Dean’s flaccid little cock in his big hand, peel back the thin foreskin, and tease until the boy is writhing with overstimulation.  He clenches and throbs so beautifully that Cas doesn’t even mind that he can barely thrust, the kid’s so tight.  So tight that Cas can stroke his prostate through his perineum.  At that, Dean orgasms one last time, dry and surprised, gasping in Cas’s arms like St. Teresa in ecstasy.  When he slumps forward, Cas tips him onto his knees and bucks into his spasming hole until he spills inside the plush heat.  That last part excites Dean: it’s what he’s seen in the movies.  He yelps with each thrust and collapses when Cas finally starts to come.

The kid whimpers when Cas tries to pull out, so in the end, he just stays, softening, letting Dean’s body push him out as it closes.  Cas tucks himself around the trembling boy, pulls up a corner of the altar cloth to wrap around them both.  

“So.  Was it what you wanted?”

Dean makes a wordless noise, plants a wet kiss on the nearest bit of Cas he can reach—the wrist of the arm cradling his head.  He’s more than half-asleep already, and he’ll stay in Cas’s arms until Sunday church bells wake them in the morning.


End file.
